


Human Resources

by Caffeinated_Snail



Category: Diabolik Lovers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Family Issues, Mind Games, Reiji is very professional, Romance, Slow Burn, but also very unprofessional
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-05
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2020-11-24 13:44:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20908628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Caffeinated_Snail/pseuds/Caffeinated_Snail
Summary: Paid blood donation sounds like a dream come true for Miyu, a broke university student. But her job interview with Reiji Sakamaki may be the start of more than she bargained for.





	1. Armored

_Courtesy is a lady’s armor. – Sophie Turner_

Miyu doubted that it was normal business practice to hold job interviews in dimly lit coffee shops an hour before closing. Then again, blood donation was hardly a normal business, and the interview process for her desired position was about as far from normal as one could get. The advertisement had been posted on a bulletin board outside the plasma donation center:

“Type O negative blood donor urgently needed for multiple patients on a long-term basis. Competitive five-figure compensation package.”

Of course it had to be a scam. Miyu had donated plasma a grand total of twice, and it was quickly apparent that she could earn more money doing almost anything else. She had also never heard of whole blood donation in the private sphere. Still, type O negative blood was the rarest type, and part of her wanted to believe that her blood was special enough to merit a five-figure compensation package. She took a picture of the advertisement – as a joke, she told herself, to show people for a laugh – and saved it on her phone.

A few days later, on the last day of April, Miyu was huddled in a corner of her room, hunched over the small floor table she used as a desk. The night was unseasonally cold, and no creative arrangement of blankets could drive the chill out of her legs and feet. The property description had referred to her room as a “cozy bohemian garret” in a “spacious, centrally located share house,” but this was code for a poorly insulated attic room, in a share house where students were packed in like cattle in stalls – centrally located in a questionable part of town. No matter, Miyu had thought. It was the lowest rent she could find within walking (more like trekking) distance of campus. The room consisted almost entirely of oddly angled eaves and gables, such that there were few places that she could stand upright. Miyu told herself this was a plus, since she didn’t need any real furniture.

Since it was the last day of the month, Miyu was looking over her budget. “Budget” was how she referred to an ever-growing barrage of loan payments and overdue tuition bills, counteracted by feeble attempts at payment from various part-time jobs and (in two instances) the plasma donation center. She had hoped to power through the last two semesters of university on sheer momentum and force of will. The bills could wait until she had a full-time job after graduation. But now, after an uncomfortable conversation at the financial aid office and a few veiled threats from her landlord, she saw it was impossible. The numbers didn’t add up.

Miyu’s phone beeped – an email alert – and she perked up with Pavlovian speed, hoping it was a message from the part-time job agency. But it was an email from her little brother, Ichiro, the golden child.

_Hi Miyu,_

_I hope you’re doing okay. I know you’re bad at keeping in touch, but you really need to tell me you’re alive once in a while. Are you getting ready for final exams? I’ve been studying nonstop. Mom is breathing down my neck even more without you here._

_I know you don’t want to hear this, but you need to come home. Mom and Dad don’t talk about you but this is making them crazy. They’re talking about taking a trip to Tatsuyama, as if they just want to take some scenic tour, and I know it’s because they’re imagining you and Touma living there. You can’t actually believe that they never want to see you again._

_You can just blame Touma for everything. Say he brainwashed you. Classic evil boyfriend. You’re good at dramatic stories, and it’s not like they could hate him more than they already do. I don’t know why you’re being so stubborn. It’s stupid to let him ruin your life like this. And it’s selfish. You always say you need more time, and I’m stuck knowing what’s really going on, hoping Mom and Dad don’t suddenly ask me about it. I don’t know how long I can keep this dumb promise. Write back to me._

_Ichiro_

Miyu reread the email three times before setting her phone down, a dull weight growing in her stomach. Ichiro would never understand, since he’d grown up in the warm light of their parents’ favor rather than the fog of their indifference. He didn’t need to prove his worth. Miyu was not going to come home broke and defeated, spinning a sorry tale about how Touma had backed out of their elopement, listening to her parents smugly reaffirm how right they had been. Miyu was going to come home victorious, a college graduate with a lucrative job, on the arm of a boyfriend her parents wouldn’t dare find fault with. Her armor would be perfect, without a chink to be found.

She needed to earn enough to stay in university the next two semesters. She feared that taking time off to work would be the start of a downward spiral, with all hope of graduation shrinking away out of sight. She needed another part-time gig. Miyu reached for her phone to peruse the job boards, but found herself looking at the photo of the blood donation advertisement instead. It seemed to be beckoning her. She let out a resigned sigh.

“Nigerian prince, here I come,” Miyu said aloud. She had a habit of talking aloud to herself when she did something impulsive, as if casting the situation in a humorous light for an imaginary audience would justify her idiocy. She quickly composed an email inquiring as to the details of the opportunity, expressing interest, thanking the recipient (doubtless a Nigerian prince) for his time, etc. Then she hit “send.”

The reply came sooner than expected – within an hour – and she was surprised by the Nigerian prince’s personalized response and impressive command of the Japanese language. Apparently a recession forced even scammers to up their game. He requested a current (this word was bolded) copy of her resume, with a cover letter describing her reasons for applying for the position. This seemed premature considering that she still knew next to nothing about the job. Still, it didn’t feel sinister, like a request for a bank account number or home address or medical records. Miyu double-checked that her resume really was current, then typed up an over-eager cover letter full of vague catchphrases like “detail-oriented,” “people person,” and “strong worth ethic.” She sent it and waited.

This was the start of a bizarre exchange that took place over the course of a few weeks, evolving from correspondence to tangible assignments. She was required to get a full medical examination (prepaid), a physical fitness test (prepaid), and a consultation at a traditional medicine clinic (also prepaid). She needed to send in the results of 3 different personality tests and write 2 original essays – one on the changing landscape of medical ethics, and one on the stabilizing role of hierarchy in human society. This was heartening, since Miyu was good at writing essays.

At the same time, the Nigerian prince (a real stickler for correct grammar, as it turned out) gave Miyu a rough description of what the job would entail: on-call blood donation to no less than 6 clients at a treatment facility in another prefecture. These clients suffered from a rare medical condition that was never described in detail. The timeframe was from March to September, which meant Miyu would need to take that semester off school. A semester’s delay was more than worth it when this job could pay for the entirety of her college education, but the enormity of a 6-month gig made her nervous. She had never signed a contract for such a long time period before, and it felt like a staggering commitment. She comforted herself with the thought that perhaps at the interview, she could negotiate for a shorter trial period to start with.

This thought quickly dissipated once the interview was underway, as it soon became obvious that her clients’ “patient advocate” was not the negotiating type. Mr. Reiji Sakamaki had been waiting for her at a small table in the corner of the gloomy coffee shop, and no sooner did she arrive than he scolded her for being late. (Late by not one but two minutes.) Her unforgivable lack of punctuality triggered an entire lecture on the value of other people’s time and a number of references to the 6 months indicated in the contract, as if he feared she would show up to the job a month late. Miyu tried to look attentive without being too self-incriminating, but she wasn’t wholly listening to his tirade. She was too intrigued by his appearance.

His pale skin excluded him from the ranks of Nigerian princes, but he could easily pass as a prince of some other kind. He bore himself like an aristocrat despite the shabby surroundings. Or perhaps the surroundings enhanced his aura of nobility? He seemed a bit young to be a patient advocate, more like a college student really, if princes went to college. His glasses highlighted the scholarly vibe. Oddly, he wore a white glove on one hand. Did he suffer from a deathly fear of the germs lurking on elevator buttons…?

Miyu stared a bit too long before realizing that not only had he stopped talking, but he had asked her a question, and she had no idea what it was. She smiled apologetically. “Pardon?”

“What would you like to drink?”

“Oh.” She felt stupid and glanced up at the wall-mounted menu, shrouded in shadows above the counter. She needed to recover her gracious interview façade. “Well, I suppose I’ll have some…” Why was the menu written in such tiny script? She squinted. “Some green tea?”

“The tea here is of atrocious quality. Would you prefer juice or milk?”

Just let me drink my atrocious tea, Miyu thought. She had frequented this place before her finances took a nosedive, and she liked their tea just fine, thank you very much. But she had already managed to fall out of Mr. Sakamaki’s good graces by arriving late, and she might as well humor him. She craned her neck to see the juice selection. “Orange juice?”

“Orange juice has a high glycemic index and would be overly stimulating at this late hour. Lemon juice would be more appropriate.”

“Oh, I see.” Were patient advocates always this health-conscious? And pushy?

“You may remain seated. I will place our orders.” Mr. Sakamaki began to rise.

Miyu scrambled to her feet as well, eager to make up for her tardiness however she could. “Oh, no. Please allow me…” Her voice faded away as Mr. Sakamaki threw her a disapproving glare.

“It would be remiss of me to allow a lady to pay her own way. And it is terribly rude to refuse a potential employer’s generosity.” Looking miffed, he went to the counter and ordered two glasses of – Miyu cringed – _unsweetened_ lemon juice. She expected him to come back and sit down, but he lingered at the counter and she realized he was closely watching the barista, probably to ensure that no sugar found its way into their lemon juice.

At least this gave her a brief respite. Miyu took the opportunity to smooth her skirt, double-check that her phone was set to vibrate, and pull her chair a bit closer to the table. Her hands kept sweating no matter how many times she tried to subtly wipe them on her skirt, and the cheap polyester fabric seemed to only spread the sweat around rather than absorbing it. She needed to refocus and not allow Mr. Sakamaki’s insufferable attitude to throw her off. This was like any other interview, she told herself. She just needed to act earnest and agreeable and a little bit impressed, and keep responding as if Mr. Sakamaki was the voice of reason rather than the voice of…

“Your lemon juice.” He had returned sooner than expected with two ominously tall glasses. They were full to the brim without a single ice cube. Miyu thanked him, took a sip, and felt her mouth pucker despite her best efforts. A hint of smile appeared on Mr. Sakamaki’s face. “Delicious, isn’t it? Do you like it?”

“Yes, it’s very refreshing.” Miyu took a bigger gulp to prove it and nearly spat it out, but managed to swallow. This interview had already started out badly, and it was only getting worse. But he was pulling out a manila folder now and opening it to reveal a list of questions. Finally! She at least had confidence in her question-answering skills.

Mr. Sakamaki started with some basic questions related to her education and previous work experience, gradually sliding into more personal territory as he brought up the results of her personality tests. How agreeable was she? Did she consider herself a team player? What was an instance where she obeyed an authority figure despite misgivings? (Miyu could think of nothing, and ended up heavily embellishing an incident at a previous job.) Did she exercise discretion in all her dealings? How did she demonstrate flexibility in her everyday life?

Fifteen minutes stretched into twenty, and it was starting to feel more like an interrogation than an interview. Miyu answered questions between sips of lemon juice, trying to keep up with Mr. Sakamaki’s relentless pace of drinking (did he have taste buds of steel?). She had heard stories of female office workers who secretly dumped their drinks into potted plants at office events, to give the appearance of holding their liquor and “keeping up with the boys.” She stared longingly at the half-dead ficus tree next to their table and wished that Mr. Sakamaki would glance away for even a moment.

“Do you take an interest in horticulture, or have I managed to bore you?”

Miyu snapped to attention. “I’m sorry. The plant just caught my eye, and…”

“Ficus benjamina,” Mr. Sakamaki said, reaching out to slide a leaf between his gloved fingers. “Clearly neglected. A most unfortunate specimen. What is your amateur assessment? Does it have any hope of survival?”

He seemed to be mocking her. “I suppose it does look a little hopeless,” she said, feeling hopeless herself.

“Hopeless?” Mr. Sakamaki raised an eyebrow. “That seems like a rather hasty judgment. Your cover letter stated that you had a positive outlook and enjoyed taking on new challenges. Isn’t it too soon to condemn this” – he glanced at the plant again – “admittedly poor excuse for a ficus?”

“I think it’s just as important to know when to give up as when to press on,” Miyu replied, surprised by her own boldness (would he think her witty?) and hoping this would steer the conversation back into some semblance of an interview.

“Is changing direction the same as giving up?”

It felt like a trick question. “Only if you end up going in a direction you don’t want to go, I suppose.” She didn’t see how a ficus tree could change direction anyway.

Surprisingly, Mr. Sakamaki seemed satisfied with her answer. He nodded and leaned back in his chair, seeming to ponder for a moment before asking, “Do you have a boyfriend?”

“What?” It came out sounding ruder than she intended. She tried again. “Excuse me?”

He looked at her expectantly.

“No, I don’t,” Miyu conceded, “but why is that relevant?”

“It is relevant with regard to the transfer of communicable diseases, which could be devastating for the clients who would receive your blood.” Mr. Sakamaki leaned forward again and held out his gloved right hand, motioning to the tabletop. “Your hands, please.”

Obeying without thinking, Miyu put her hands on the table before suddenly wondering why, and she tensed when he picked the left one up. Gently, as if handling delicate porcelain, he lifted the ring finger and inspected it closely, holding it mere inches from his face. Miyu was too flustered to move. He did the same with her right hand, paying particular attention to the space between her knuckle and first joint. After a few seconds that felt like minutes, he put it down.

“What was that for?” Miyu asked, injecting her voice with as much nonchalance as she could manage. As if hand inspections were par for the course in job interviews.

“Most couple rings would leave an indentation, and perhaps a lightened mark,” he said, and explained no further. Miyu felt indignant at the implication that she might have been lying – and surprised that he would take lack of a ring indentation as concrete proof of singledom. (Touma had never given her a ring.) But before she could think of how to respond, Mr. Sakamaki was pulling several manila folders out of his briefcase without so much as a glance at her. She quickly withdrew her hands to her lap, where they twisted against each other, clammy and tense. She felt irrational relief that he had been wearing a glove, so he wouldn’t know how much her hands were sweating.

“Since we’re on the topic of honesty, let’s continue in this vein,” he said, placing the folders on the table and looking at Miyu over tented fingers. It was strange to see a gloved and gloveless hand juxtaposed like that. It made Miyu think of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and she wondered briefly which hand would belong to which. She noticed there was no ring on his bare left hand.

Mr. Sakamaki leaned forward slightly. “Are you an honest person?”

Miyu was taken aback. She couldn’t say yes. She wasn’t perfectly honest in every way, and she got the feeling that he would take a “yes” as proof of dishonesty somehow. But how could she say no? Mr. Sakamaki was smiling at her. He only ever seemed to smile when she was in an awkward position.

“I try to be honest,” Miyu said finally.

“Trying implies failure. When have you failed to be honest?”

This was so much worse than being asked about mistakes at a previous job, or about her weaknesses as a person. Miyu clenched her fingers in her lap. “It’s hard for me to be honest about what I think sometimes. I don’t want to offend other people or hurt their feelings.” That was a nice positive spin. At least she sounded kind-hearted.

“So you tell people what they want to hear? You flatter them? You play along with their delusions and feed into their errors of judgment?”

He made it sound terrible. “It’s not… that extreme,” Miyu amended. “I just don’t want to cause unnecessary conflict. Sometimes it’s better not to say what I really think.”

“Remaining silent is not dishonest. Nobody would argue that. You should answer the questions that I asked, not divert the topic to make yourself appear innocent.” Mr. Sakamaki’s eyes glinted dangerously behind his glasses. “Please provide a concrete example of your dishonesty.”

Was he serious? Who would actually ask this in an interview? Miyu could think of all too many instances of dishonesty – mostly her creative excuses for lateness – but she was too ashamed to say any of them out loud. Mr. Sakamaki had just made white lies seem like a serious crime, and it seemed like she would be convicted no matter what she said.

“It seems this question is too difficult for you.” Mr. Sakamaki assumed an expression of mild concern. “Perhaps you suffer from a poor memory, so allow me to be more specific. Have you been dishonest with me?”

Miyu’s eyes widened. “No! I don’t make things up when I answer interview questions.” (She suddenly remembered the embellishing, but really, that hardly counted.) “And all my documents are real. I’m not a scammer or anything-“

“Do you like lemon juice?”

She was cornered. “It’s not my favorite.”

“Do you like it or not?”

“It’s not that I _dislike_ it, it’s-“

He reached across the table and snapped his fingers, right in her face. Miyu jumped so hard that her chair nearly tipped back. “Do you like it? A yes or no will suffice.”

She was defeated. “No. I don’t like it.”

Mr. Sakamaki sat back. “Was it so hard to admit that? Why did you try to make me believe that you liked it when you could not even conceal your distaste? Do you realize that such behavior is an insult to the intelligence of others?”

Miyu was still recovering from the shock of him snapping his fingers in her face. It felt too surreal to have really happened – like the way he had inspected her hands for rings. The laws of personal space dictated an invisible line across the center of the table that one should not cross, and he had crossed it twice now.

“At its core, dishonesty is manipulative,” Mr. Sakamaki continued. “It is an attempt to induce certain behavior in others, when you know that honesty would elicit a different reaction. Did you think I would view you more favorably if you liked the lemon juice?”

Miyu was too mortified to look up at him – she stared fixedly at the line where his crisp white shirtfront disappeared into his dark vest – but she could feel his condescension chipping away at her meek shell to reveal the hard, bright, defiant streak inside. He had somehow seen through her (or maybe only suspected?) and now he was goading her to reveal the self she was carefully hiding. Miyu didn’t want to be seen. She wanted to get through the interview with a stoic smile and go home and wallow in her assured failure. And she was going to make a graceful finish regardless of Mr. Sakamaki’s mind games. She sat up a little straighter.

“I’m sorry for misleading you about the lemon juice,” she said, as placidly as possible. “I didn’t want to seem ungrateful for your recommendation.” Ugh, she was sounding like him now.

Mr. Sakamaki was unmoved. “One can express gratitude without resorting to lying. I don’t require an explanation. A simple apology will suffice.”

“I’m sorry,” Miyu said again, unable to fully conceal the resentment in her voice. She didn’t really want to conceal it anyway. It seemed she had little to lose at this point.

“At least you’re capable of apologizing, even if it’s not sincere,” Mr. Sakamaki said. His tone was far too blasé considering what he was saying, and then suddenly he was all business again. “Doubtless you have some questions for me as well.”

The way he switched modes between merciless accuser and accommodating potential employer was giving Miyu a case of mental whiplash.

“Then again, perhaps you have no questions about the position at all.”

“I do!” she said. “I mean, about the frequency. I’m supposed to be donating blood for 6 clients, but I thought you could only donate blood once every two months or something-“

He cut her off. “The human body holds approximately 10 pints of blood. Each typical donation at, say, the Red Cross averages 1 pint, or 10% of the total. A human can lose up to 15% of capacity with no serious issues. 30% will cause the skin to grow pale. 40% will induce shock, and beyond that… death.”

Miyu stiffened. Mr. Sakamaki seemed to sense her discomfort and took a leisurely sip of lemon juice before continuing.

“None of your clients will require a full pint at a time. These are… incremental donations, if you will. A healthy person can provide multiple such micro-donations without the currently recommended 8-week waiting period.”

Miyu wanted to ask him about the volume and waiting period of these so-called micro-donations, but he was already pulling a sheaf of papers out of the folder and placing it before her.

“An innovative addition to our micro-donation program is the incorporation of traditional medicine techniques to ensure maximum blood restoration and rapid physical rejuvenation. With a combined regimen of acupuncture, moxibustion, and individually prescribed herbs and dietary guidelines, we can guarantee positive results for both donors and recipients.”

He seemed to be making a sales pitch to a boardroom rather than to a sleep-deprived university student. Miyu started to leaf through the documents – they were full of detailed acupuncture meridian diagrams and huge nutrition charts printed in tiny fonts – but she was interrupted by Mr. Sakamaki flipping open another folder.

“I am pleased to inform you that you have demonstrated adequate viability as a candidate for the position. This is the contract. Please read it over and sign where indicated.” He paused, and as if making an enormous concession, added, “You may ask questions if any sections are unclear to you.”

Miyu gaped at him. “You’re offering me the position?”

“Is there a reason you’re so surprised? Some fatal flaw I am as yet unaware of?”

“No,” she said, a bit too emphatically. “I just assumed that if I passed the interview, you would call me in a few days… or something…”

Mr. Sakamaki’s expression fluctuated between amusement and suspicion, and to escape eye contact, Miyu looked down and began reading the contract. She soon found herself drowning in legal terminology. Were all contracts this obtuse? (She had signed many contracts but never felt such a powerful urge to read one so closely.) She wanted to ask a question about nearly every other sentence, but under the weight of his oppressive gaze, she decided to save all questions for the end and prioritize them. She wished he would stop looking at her while she was reading. Did he not realize the pressure it put on her? Or was he doing it on purpose?

She turned to the next page of the contract. It was equally inscrutable. Mr. Sakamaki let out an impatient sigh. She skipped a particularly dense paragraph and moved on to the next page. She felt palpable relief when she finally reached the signature page.

“When was the last time you received an optical exam?” Mr. Sakamaki asked abruptly.

Miyu blinked. “A few years ago…? My eyesight has always been 20/20, so…”

“You are clearly due for another one. There is no other explanation for such a deplorably slow pace of reading. Unless…” He gave her an unnecessarily piercing look. “Japanese is your second language?”

“No!” He knew her educational history. Was he trying to be insulting? “It’s just that the legal terminology…”

“Are there words here that you are unfamiliar with? Point them out and I will provide definitions.”

Miyu helplessly scanned one page of the contract after another. She did know all the words. But the way they were strung together rendered them as unintelligible as another language entirely. She looked up cautiously.

Mr. Sakamaki appeared bored. “Do you have a specific question?”

“Can I have someone else look over the contract for me?”

“Our attorney would be happy to do so for a set fee.”

Miyu guessed it would be obscenely expensive. “I mean someone else…”

“This contract deals with sensitive private medical information, which page 3 clearly states may not be disclosed to a third party for any reason. If you wish to consult our attorney, I can provide you with his contact information.”

Miyu quickly scanned page 3 again. “Are any parts of the contract negotiable?”

“Such as?”

“It says that I have to reside on the premises of the treatment facility. Could I get a housing stipend instead?” If she found cheap accommodations like her attic room, she could dedicate a large portion of the stipend to other purposes.

“Residence is non-negotiable. Our high monitoring standards and the intensive traditional medicine regimen require your presence at the treatment facility on a daily basis. The immediate vicinity has no suitable housing options, and a commute of any length would require the employment of a driver. Such an expense, combined with a housing stipend, would make for a financially untenable arrangement.”

Does he always talk like this, Miyu wondered, or did he memorize canned responses in preparation for the interview? She couldn’t imagine having to deal with someone like him on a daily basis. She imagined a bevy of longsuffering coworkers who had to put up with the bespectacled prince of lemon juice and manila folders. He probably reorganized his filing cabinet for fun.

“I will take your lack of response as an acceptance of the terms, and as an indication that you have no further questions.” Mr. Sakamaki flipped the pages of the contract over to expose the signature page once more. Seeing Miyu hesitate, he added, “As there are numerous applicants waiting to be interviewed, I cannot afford to waste time on indecision. The preliminary stages of the interview process led me to believe you were a fitting candidate. However, I admit that this may not be the case. Perhaps the next interview will prove more fruitful.” He made as if to get up from his chair.

Miyu had a policy of always sleeping on an important decision – even more so when she had a twinge of doubt. And if she had a moment to think, she was sure she’d have more questions to ask. But if it really was now or never… Ignoring the unsettled feeling in her stomach, she picked up the pen and quickly signed the contract in all the highlighted sections, printing her name neatly next to each signature.

“I see that penmanship is not your strong suit,” Mr. Sakamaki said, in a tone that suggested his judgment was irreversible. “Perhaps a correspondence course in calligraphy would prove beneficial.”

Miyu wasn’t sure how to react to such pointless criticism. She tried to laugh it off. “Well, no one’s perfect. We’re all only human…”

“Speak for yourself. And if you’re aware of your shortcomings, it should be all the more reason to strive harder for perfection rather than make generalized excuses. Those working in the medical field should cultivate a peerless sense of personal responsibility.”

His tone had grown even colder, as if securing her signature had freed him from the shackles of basic courtesy. Miyu was startled by how aggravated he sounded. But she forced herself to ignore it and pointedly changed the subject. “So the start date is Saturday, May 23, right? Next week?”

“As stated in the contract.” Mr. Sakamaki’s voice was smooth and professional again, but annoyance lurked beneath it. “You will be picked up at your current residence at three o’ clock in the afternoon, and I suggest you make a greater effort to be punctual than you did today. Upon arrival at the treatment facility at five o’ clock, there will be a guided tour of the facility and grounds, orientation session, and welcome dinner.” He pulled out yet another folder and thrust it at her. “The enclosed guidelines indicate the recommended items to include in your luggage and personal effects. Take careful note of the list of contraband items as well. The possession of contraband will result in disciplinary measures.”

He was starting to sound like a cross between an overzealous secretary and a prison warden. It seemed like a better fit for him to work in airport security than patient advocacy. Then again, if he handled airport security, perhaps the planes would never leave the ground. Miyu had a sudden mental image of him insisting on enhanced security checks for every single passenger.

“I will expect you to have read and absorbed all the guidelines prior to your arrival. As I stated earlier, adherence to facility rules will be tantamount in maintaining a positive working environment.” Mr. Sakamaki stood up surprisingly swiftly and swept several of the folders back into his briefcase. “Thank you for your unquestioning cooperation.”

He extended his gloved right hand to her. Did he want to shake hands? Miyu was surprised by such a liberal gesture, but perhaps he dealt with Americans frequently. She stood up and gamely reached out to clasp his hand. But he took hers first and gripped her fingers firmly, turning her palm to face downward, and then he bowed his head slightly as he brought her hand up to his lips. She felt the lightest of kisses brush her knuckles.

He was looking at her as he did it, and caught unawares she looked back at him, and she saw him seeing her. There was a strange, unsettling moment of truth in which she felt they understood each other. They understood they were playing a game, each in their own way, and the rules dictated that they never admit it. He knew that she knew that he knew, and so on.

Miyu allowed herself to hold his gaze longer than courtesy allowed. There was a transgressive thrill in not looking away, in accepting his unspoken challenge. He looked both pleased and unsurprised, as though he’d expected this somehow. Miyu noticed the smallest of smiles as he finally lowered her hand and let go.

“Until next time,” he said, with a nominal bow, and departed.

In the following days, Miyu wondered what he meant. Would she see him on May 23, or did he mean later on? Perhaps he stopped by the facility regularly? And the words before that – “thank you for your unquestioning cooperation” – played over and over in her mind. The “unquestioning” part disturbed her. Was it Mr. Sakamaki’s way of implying that she had asked too many questions? She had thought that interviewers liked to be asked questions, since it showed a spirit of initiative. Or did he suspect that she would be less than cooperative in the future? Either way, it felt oddly threatening. Mr. Sakamaki’s personality was threatening enough, and she wished he could have ended their interaction like a normal person instead of making her do mental gymnastics with his choice of words. (The kiss on her hand was too outrageous to fully process, and she dismissed it as a quirk even while guiltily trying to recall every detail.)

But there wasn’t much time to ponder what Mr. Sakamaki had said or did. In the next few days, Miyu needed to inform her landlord of her imminent departure (he took it as a betrayal), notify the university that she was taking a semester off (they were indifferent), give notice at her various part-time jobs (they were understanding), and bid temporary farewell to her classmates (they acted like she was going off on a great adventure). She hoped to visit her old neighborhood occasionally on weekends, but the treatment facility was far enough away that she doubted she would see many of her friends again before the following semester.

Online maps indicated that the facility was actually quite isolated. Miyu comforted herself with the fact that there was a church within walking distance, so there must be houses scattered in the area, too, in order for the church to have congregants. She imagined snug little cottages nestled in a bucolic countryside. Perhaps she would make some quaint provincial friends. Perhaps she would meet some tanned, down-to-earth country boy with great promise and ambition (different from Touma and superior in every way) and start a forbidden romance… not that Mr. Sakamaki had expressly forbidden it, but she was sure he wouldn’t approve. Oh well. Apparently he equated relationships with rings, and it was easy enough to steer clear of rings.

The days passed in a blur of goodbyes, and on May 23, thoughts of the five-figure compensation package buzzed in Miyu’s head as she packed her belongings and did a final check of her room. Her bohemian garret was now the cleanest it had been since she’d moved in. The afternoon sunlight from the warped windows stretched in golden squares and trapezoids across the empty floor. The room looked sad and foreign now, like a stranger’s room. She had never been fond of the place, but now it stood as a witness to her first stint of independence, those lonely months after she broke free of her parents and Touma broke free of her. Miyu felt a strange pang when she closed the door for the last time and returned the key.

Before she knew it, a black car was pulling into the driveway of the share house. It was precisely three o’ clock in the afternoon. Her new job was about to begin.


	2. Mirage

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaaaaaaaaand we’re back! Those of you who were here from the start, thanks for hanging in there while I took some time to develop the overarching plot. It was killing me to not be able to update sooner!  
The plot dictated that I change a couple of things in Chapter 1. In the original version, Reiji said Miyu would get picked up at 4:00 and arrive at 6:00, at which point there would be a tour, orientation, and welcome dinner with the clients. This has been changed to a 3:00 pickup and 5:00 arrival, and the welcome dinner does not include the clients. (I promise there are good reasons for this…) I dislike making retroactive changes, so I hope to keep my plot under control so there won’t be any more going forward!

_We need the sweet pain of anticipation to tell us we are really alive. – Albert Camus_

The elderly driver said nothing as they whizzed down the road, the urban crush of buildings gradually fading into a smattering of houses surrounded by fields. Miyu occasionally caught his eye in the rear-view mirror, but he had not spoken a word beyond their brief greeting in the driveway of the share house. She wanted to ask him about the treatment facility – what it was like working there, what sorts of people were there – and above all wanted to know if she would have the displeasure of seeing Mr. Sakamaki today. But the driver gave off a gruff, foreboding air and Miyu was too timid to start a conversation. So she began reviewing the guidelines Mr. Sakamaki had given her one more time.

The list of recommended items to bring was quite short and included items that seemed painfully obvious (wouldn’t any sane person bring pajamas if they were going to live somewhere for six months?). The clothing guidelines were frighteningly precise. Miyu had eventually given up on trying to measure whether every one of her garments followed the rules – she had better things to do than try on every blouse she owned and measure the exact number of centimeters it dipped below her collarbone. Covering exposed skin seemed to be a recurring theme, so she had invested in a few cheap pairs of leggings to wear under her more questionable skirts.

The list of contraband items was also short, but the categories were surprisingly broad:

_Food or drinks of any kind, including alcoholic beverages, chewing gum and breath mints_

This seemed unnecessarily draconian. Miyu had decided to bring a small amount of gum anyway, to stave off late-night food cravings in the privacy of her room. It wasn’t as if she was going to walk around chewing it in public. Mr. Sakamaki probably had quite a lot to say about people who chewed gum, and none of it complimentary.

_Over-the-counter or illicit drugs_

Any residential medical facility would have an in-house pharmacy, after all.

_Cosmetic products and personal care products (hair care and hygiene products are provided)_

This was completely unreasonable, and Miyu had ignored it and packed her entire makeup bag. She never left the house without at least a little makeup – her mother had made her feelings on that clear. She had never let Touma see her without makeup, either, though she had managed to trick him many times with her “no-makeup” makeup look.

After all, she needed to look good, because who knows who she’d meet in this magical new place? She liked to imagine the treatment facility as a bright, sun-washed place with gleaming white hallways and huge windows – an open floor plan with columns and partitions and maybe even escalators. It would be the sort of interior she saw in TV dramas, full of handsome young doctors in white coats. She daydreamed about the dramatic love triangle that would doubtless ensue between her and two medical professionals. As the TV drama formula dictated, one would be a surgeon. Tall and thin and clever, maybe a genius, a little cold… She’d catch his eye because she’d impressed him somehow (even though he was terribly hard to impress), and he’d be fascinated and become obsessed with her. And one would be a little shorter but have a sturdy, muscular physique like the aikido sensei she’d had a crush on in middle school. He’d be warm and earthy and unbearably _physical_ – a physical therapist, maybe. Compassionate. Heart on his sleeve. They would become rivals over her affections. Maybe there would even be a fistfight.

Indeed, a fistfight would be the only sort of fight likely to happen on the premises, as all weapons appeared to be banned. This category was the longest entry on the list of contraband:

_Weapons or explosives of any kind, including firearms, ammunition, stun guns, tasers, swords, knives, razor blades, brass knuckles, tactical batons, bo staffs, ice picks, bladed farming implements, shuriken, boomerangs, nunchaku, fireworks, flare guns, land mines, thermite, grenades, and pepper spray_

Miyu was a bit disturbed by how detailed this particular section was. It also seemed bizarre that pepper spray was included amongst actual weapons. She had no intention of leaving hers behind – what if the neighborhood around the facility was poorly lit at night, and she was accosted by a drunk? She also decided to bring her tiny Swiss Army knife. It hardly qualified as a weapon, and it was too useful to do without in an unfamiliar place.

Aside from the lists of recommended and contraband items, the guidelines included a list of facility rules, which ranged from the sensible (no smoking) to the finicky (no walking on particular plots of grass) to the unnerving (no screaming for any reason). There was also a detailed section on how to handle any injuries that involved “broken skin or bleeding, no matter how minor or superficial.” Miyu wasn’t sure why a cut on one’s finger would necessitate sprinting down a red-lined route on the facility map to a designated “treatment location” (there were several, indicated with little crosses), and she wondered if the facility was crawling with blood-borne pathogens just waiting to infect her. Why else the undue emphasis on receiving treatment “without delay”?

And the facility map made the place look like a maze. Miyu had used a highlighter to indicate what she expected to be key routes – from her room to the dining area, from her room to the lab, from her room to the garden – but she hoped there would be ample signage in big print like an airport. Spatial awareness (and mazes) had never been her forte. Ichiro always said she should pray not to be reincarnated as a lab rat. (He liked the idea of reincarnation but wouldn’t admit to believing in it. Miyu liked the idea of a merciful God who loved her despite all her flaws and perhaps even more than her brother, but she, too, kept her opinions locked away, safe from their parents’ objections to lack of empirical evidence.)

Miyu must have dozed off looking at the map, because the next thing she knew, the car had stopped. She was curled up comfortably against the window, feet tucked under her on the seat, her seat belt shoved down against her arm. She didn’t want to wake up. She would have been happy to keep riding for hours and hours while she slipped in and out of that glorious late-afternoon delirium. She couldn’t remember what her dream was about – it had just left an intoxicating impression that couldn’t be pinpointed.

“Miss, we’ve arrived,” the driver said unnecessarily, and Miyu heard his door open and then shut. She didn’t want to wake up. She forced herself to open her eyes, unfold her stiff limbs, and climb out of the car. She tried to cling to the last remnants of the dream, but it disintegrated upon contact with sunlight.

They were in the driveway of an enormous mansion, all brick and ivy and rows of tall windows that gleamed in the dying light. It resembled a photo in a history book more than it did the modern white treatment facility Miyu had imagined. It looked like it could easily be home to a hundred people, and it ought to be teeming with servants and governesses and several generations of a noble family, from squalling infants to hawk-like matriarchs. She half-expected a 19th-century European aristocrat (complete with waistcoat and cravat) to come riding up on horseback to greet her. No, that was silly; there ought to be an overwhelmingly perky nurse in perky-colored scrubs with a clipboard, eager to welcome her to this “beautifully restored historic space.” Or a bored-looking administrator who was tired of everyone and everything (probably as a result of having to work with Mr. Sakamaki).

But there were no people to be seen, and no other cars parked in the driveway. The air was heavy and still. Miyu glanced blearily around the grounds as the driver unloaded her luggage, but saw no signs of life other than pristine landscaping and ancient-looking trees. She thought the driver would help bring her luggage to the front door, but he was already climbing back into the car, seemingly in a hurry to leave. He had started the car before she could even say a word of thanks.

Watching the car round the bend of the driveway and disappear from sight, Miyu felt a tiny prickling of nervousness. All the promise and excitement she had felt at three o’ clock had evaporated, leaving her drained and jittery at the same time. Her blouse had a strange crease across the front – probably from her odd sleeping position – and she could feel wispy hairs escaping from her elaborate crown braid. She was somehow already too hot and felt irritable after being woken so suddenly. She would feel better if her dream hadn’t been interrupted. What had it been about, anyway? She strained to remember and dragged both her wheeled suitcases across the bumpy cobblestones up to the front steps.

The front door opened before she reached it, and the tall form of Mr. Sakamaki appeared. Wearing a crisp white shirt and black vest, standing in the doorway of the mansion, he looked for all the world like a butler. A rather intimidating butler.

“You’re early,” he said, and she couldn’t tell whether his tone was accusatory or approving. She was expending a huge amount of effort in attempting to look happy to see him. Before she had finished bowing to him, she found he was already at her side, pulling the suitcases away from her and carrying them up the steps.

“That’s all right,” she began tentatively, trying to ratchet her voice higher into a cheerful tone. “I can-“

“It is thoughtless to pack more than one can comfortably carry,” Mr. Sakamaki huffed, reaching the threshold and lugging her things across. “Please refrain from undue exertion in the future. Your exercise regimen has been tailored specifically to your needs, and you ought not exceed it.” He abandoned her luggage at the top of the stairs, and Miyu grabbed it as she hurried after him.

Upon seeing the exterior of the mansion, Miyu had assumed it was a historic building transformed into a medical facility in the typical way – gutted and soulless, with a lifeless, neutral interior. Like a snail’s shell where the lovely, delicate creature had been scraped out, leaving only emptiness. But to her surprise, the front door led into a grandiose entrance hall. It was decorated in period fashion, complete with chandelier and sweeping staircase. The floors, carpets, wallpaper, and molding all looked original. There wasn’t even an ugly welcome desk.

She felt very small. The suitcase wheels were embarrassingly loud in the cavernous space. Mr. Sakamaki strode to the stairs with Miyu scrambling in his wake, then turned to her. “Did you study the facility map?”

“Yes,” Miyu said in her most upbeat voice (how would he define “study”?).

“In that case, you should be able to find your room from here, yes?” 

It had happened. She had been reincarnated as a lab rat even though she wasn’t dead. She plastered on a smile. “I can probably figure it out.” She had the map, after all, and she could ask for directions as soon as she ran into someone. She glanced around hopefully. There was no one.

Mr. Sakamaki looked amused. “Your optimism is charming. I suppose you would be hopelessly lost in no time.” He took hold of her suitcases again. “We will proceed to your room and continue with a guided tour of areas of interest.” Without waiting for Miyu’s reply, he started up the stairs.

She felt foolish following him with only her overstuffed messenger bag, like a child shadowing a parent, while he carried both suitcases. He did not relinquish them at the top of the stairs as Miyu expected. As they turned down a dim corridor, she was unsure whether to continue behind him like a trailing puppy, or try to walk beside him despite the unwieldy suitcases flanking him. She was already awkwardly half-jogging to keep up with his stride. He was taller than she’d remembered, and it seemed he took only one step for every two of hers.

The mansion seemed strangely bigger on the inside than it looked on the outside, like some kind of magician’s bag. She would have liked to look around to get her bearings as they turned down yet another (even dimmer) corridor, but his pace was relentless. When he finally stopped, she nearly crashed into his back.

“This is your room.” Mr. Sakamaki opened the door and stepped back rather graciously, finally releasing her luggage from his clutches. Miyu brought her suitcases inside and looked around. She was immediately struck by a pungent, metallic odor vaguely reminiscent of old coins. Like the entrance hall and the corridors, the room seemed to be the relic of a bygone era – faded but elegant wallpaper, an oversized canopy bed, and antique wooden décor. All the furnishings were so dainty and feminine that it was hard to fathom the existence of this bedroom and the rigid Mr. Sakamaki in the same building. Then again, they were both a bit stuffy in their own way.

Mr. Sakamaki was lingering in the doorway, as if an invisible barrier was preventing him from crossing into the room. Miyu remembered that she was trying to act bubbly and thought she should say something. “It’s lovely.” She wished he would leave so she could unpack.

“You will have time to unpack this evening when the other items on the agenda have been completed,” he said, as if reading her mind. “It is now time for the guided tour of the facility.”

Excellent, Miyu thought. She could finally get a glimpse of those handsome young doctors.

“Before we go,” Mr. Sakamaki said, “it is necessary to take precautionary measures.” He pulled something out of his pocket that turned out to be a small spray bottle. “This prophylactic spray must be applied every two hours when you are anywhere in the facility aside from your own room. It should be applied liberally to the whole of your person. You must ensure proper coverage on any areas of exposed skin in particular.”

Miyu made a mental note to look up the word “prophylactic.” It sounded like something antiseptic.

“Please stand with your feet apart and your arms up,” he said, brandishing the bottle like a weapon. Miyu did as commanded and pondered the successful career that Mr. Sakamaki could enjoy in airport security. He held the bottle at arm’s length and sprayed her with an expression of distaste, and once the smell hit her nose she understood why. It was the same nasty metallic smell that hung over the entire room. It was unlike any antiseptic she had ever smelled.

Mr. Sakamaki handed her the bottle. “Refills will be available in the laboratory as needed.”

“Thank you,” Miyu said, stuffing the bottle into her messenger bag. It was hard to imagine TV drama romance blossoming in this place if everybody smelled like stale money. Then again, she hadn’t noticed any such odor emanating from Mr. Sakamaki when they were in the entrance hall. Was she the only one being subjected to this stink bomb?

Mr. Sakamaki led the way back down the corridor, but this time, he pointed out rooms (or rather, closed doors) as they passed by.

“The door on the right is a linen storage closet,” he said. “Please refrain from opening it. Replacement bedding is available in your own wardrobe should you need it. I will discuss laundry procedures on the next upcoming laundry day. The door coming up on the left is a bedroom currently not in use. There should be no reason for you to enter it.” They turned a corner. “The door on the right is the music room-“

“Music room?” Miyu said, hardly noticing Mr. Sakamaki’s affronted huff at her interruption. “Is there a piano? It would be nice to have a piano to play.”

“Yes, there is a piano,” he said, not slowing his pace. “But you are not permitted to enter the music room at random. You must reserve it in advance.”

“Oh, is there a sign-up sheet?”

“Reservations are made in person.”

“Who do I ask?”

“You may come to me with any such requests.” Mr. Sakamaki gestured to the left. “That is the game room. It contains a pool table, dartboard, and various other devices of frivolous amusement. A similar reservation policy applies.”

This seemed odd. “Don’t people gather there to play together?” Miyu asked. “Why would I reserve it just for myself?”

“Staff members do not make use of the recreational facilities, and the patients operate on a different time schedule than you,” Mr. Sakamaki said stiffly. “Furthermore, fraternization with the patients is forbidden during your initial probationary period. Details will be provided during the orientation session.”

As the tour dragged on, Miyu’s hopes of meeting anyone dwindled down to nothing. There were no doctors to be found, or patients, or even staff for that matter. The only sound in the mansion was their own footsteps. Mr. Sakamaki led her down corridor after corridor, past large paintings and faintly glowing wall sconces and an endless number of closed doors. More rooms seemed to be off-limits than not. Mr. Sakamaki seemed mainly interested in conveying an ever-growing litany of rules (no lighting fires in the fireplaces, no opening cabinets, no throwing items out of windows, no relocating the potted plants, no putting one’s feet on the furniture). Miyu acknowledged him with several pleasant permutations of “yes” and “I see,” but avoided saying anything of substance herself. At this point, she planned to save all her questions for someone (anyone) else.

They traversed a large portion of the second floor before descending to the first floor and entering the dining area. Miyu was certain she’d see staff there – maybe a kindly old cafeteria lady or a disgruntled food-service “chef” – but like the rest of the place, it was neat and clean but devoid of any signs of life. A long dining table was crowded with porcelain dishes of an astonishing variety of food (too much, considering there were only two place settings laid out), which would normally suggest that a cafeteria lady had come and gone. But the dishes were arranged so precisely that Miyu had a nagging suspicion that it was not a staff member who had put them there, but Mr. Sakamaki himself.

From the large windows that faced into the back garden, Miyu saw some benches under trees and an inviting path. But there were no doctors pushing patients in wheelchairs, no one clad in gowns and tottering around with rolling IV stands. No gardeners absentmindedly clipping hedges, no fierce middle-aged women with brooms sweeping the patio.

And then she did see someone.

It was only for a moment, but she saw him in the dying light behind a rose bush before he ducked out of sight again. He was dressed in dark clothes and had white hair, and for a moment she thought he must be an elderly landscaper. But he had moved too quickly and nimbly for that. Like a youth. Had she seen wrong? She looked at the lengthening shadows where the figure had been a moment before.

“The garden is off-limits after sunset,” Mr. Sakamaki said from directly behind her. “As is the rest of the facility. Following dinner, which concludes at half past five, you may walk for improved digestion until six o’ clock. From six o’ clock onward, if you are on the premises, you are required to stay in your room. Lights out begins at half past eight.”

Miyu only half heard what he said. She was squinting, trying to make out whether the figure was still in the shadows. She thought she saw a flash of movement, but maybe it was the wind in the leaves. No, it had moved too much to be the wind.

“Your interest in horticulture appears to be rearing its ugly head once more.”

“The patients,” Miyu began, rather incoherently. “And the other staff. Will I meet them today?”

“The patients’ condition renders them somewhat… indisposed. As I mentioned before, they operate on a different schedule. And there is no need for you to meet them personally as of yet. I will give you a briefing on each one during the orientation session after dinner. Please be seated.”

Miyu turned to the table. Its spindly legs looked ready to collapse under the weight of all the food. Mr. Sakamaki had pulled out one of the upholstered dining chairs, and she realized he was waiting for her to sit down. It felt both chivalrous and pressuring, like having a door opened for her when she was still too far away, and needing to hurry to walk through it. She sat and tried to keep her weight off it until he pushed it in for her.

“The menu has been tailored specifically to your individual constitution and your need for blood-building foods,” Mr. Sakamaki said as he took his own seat. “You must consume a balance of each dish rather than favoring some over the others. Picky eating will not be tolerated. Chew thoroughly to prevent any digestive issues, and do not eat beyond the point of satiety. Your appetite will gradually increase to match the caloric deficit created by ongoing blood donation, so there is no need for gluttony.” He picked up his chopsticks, set them back down, and glared at Miyu. “Did your parents not teach you any manners?”

“Thank you for the meal,” she said quickly. “I’m sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt you-“

“I should not need to lecture you on basic table manners. You could at least try to make a good first impression on your first day here.”

They ate in silence. Miyu carefully rotated which foods she ate, paranoid that she’d be accused of whatever qualified as picky eating in Mr. Sakamaki’s book. He looked like he would be a picky eater himself – and he did eat delicately – but she was surprised to see that he consumed a large quantity of every dish on the table. When they had finished (she kept stealing glances at him to match his pace), she put her chopsticks down and offered very deliberate thanks for the food. Mr. Sakamaki sighed.

“I suppose there will be time to address your manners another day,” he said. “The orientation will be conducted in the living room.” He motioned to the dirty dishes. “You are not responsible for dishes after the evening meal, but breakfast and lunch dishes are a different matter. I will show you the proper dishwashing procedure tomorrow morning.”

Miyu was starting to wonder if the entire treatment facility was run by a staff of one. She followed him out of the dining area, glancing back through the window one last time at the ominous rose bush, and found herself in an adjoining living room. Here, she attempted a dignified pose on the sofa while he conjured up an easel-like display stand out of nowhere and began flipping the pages. It felt like a corporate presentation. He even had a slightly dangerous-looking pointer that he used to indicate words on each page for extra emphasis.

Miyu’s daily schedule was the first topic. Mr. Sakamaki started with a complicated circular chart, explaining how in traditional medicine, each organ meridian was associated with a different time of day, and how therefore the different times of day were perfectly suited for different activities. All of this translated into rigid requirements about when to take walks, when to bathe, when to read (or avoid reading), and when to socialize. By now Miyu was patently concerned about the possibility of a social life, and was pleased to hear that “enriching social activities” would be scheduled following her initial weeklong probationary period. She doubted that Mr. Sakamaki’s idea of “enriching” was the same as hers, but anything that involved other people seemed like a good idea at this point.

Next, Mr. Sakamaki revisited the facility rules and regulations in greater depth and detail. Miyu wasn’t sure how it was possible for there to still be rules that she hadn’t heard about – either in the guidelines or on the tour – but Mr. Sakamaki delivered a stirring speech on topics ranging from the evils of allowing umbrellas to drip indoors to the necessity of using a hair trap on the drain in the shower (“any damages to the plumbing caused by negligence on your part will be subtracted from your compensation package”). Miyu was relieved when he finally flipped over the final page on rules and moved on to what actually interested her: the patients.

“As you know, you will be providing blood to a total of six patients,” he said. “Interpersonal contact with the patients is not permitted at this time, but the fraternization ban may be lifted in the future depending on the circumstances. You should be aware that a number of the patients demonstrate unstable behavior. It would be ill-advised to risk your mental health through excessive interaction with them, when your mental health is so closely tied to your physical condition.”

“Unstable behavior?” Miyu said.

“Exhibit A,” Mr. Sakamaki continued, flipping over a page as if he hadn’t heard her. This revealed a large color photo of a strikingly handsome young man with blonde hair and blue eyes. His features were a bit softer than Mr. Sakamaki’s, but Miyu thought they had a slight resemblance. Not that she found Mr. Sakamaki handsome, she thought, glancing over at him. He just had a very symmetrical face and well-defined features.

“This is the oldest patient, though you would never know it since he is the least mature of all. His name is Shuu.” Mr. Sakamaki said the name with such vitriol that Miyu unconsciously wrapped her arms around herself for protection. “He suffers from severe narcolepsy and lethargy. There is a possibility that you will find his good-for-nothing body draped over the furniture or sprawled out on the floor in any number of inappropriate locations. Should you encounter him, do not engage. Leave the vicinity immediately and inform me so that the contamination of his person can be removed.”

Miyu was a bit stunned by Mr. Sakamaki’s revulsion. Shuu’s perfectly proportioned face didn’t look like it justified that level of hatred, and knowing that Mr. Sakamaki despised him made her take an automatic liking to him. She had never heard of anyone narcoleptic in real life except Harriet Tubman, who was obviously heroic, and the shared diagnosis gave Shuu a similarly heroic aura. She pictured him boldly standing up to Mr. Sakamaki’s unreasonable demands, fighting for his rights like an attorney on the stand, blue eyes alight with righteous indignation. It must be very difficult being narcoleptic, Miyu thought. It would be terrifying to fall asleep somewhere and wake up with Mr. Sakamaki looming over you.

Mr. Sakamaki cleared his throat, and Shuu’s face disappeared from view as he flipped over the page to reveal no picture at all, just a name. “Exhibit B. The second oldest patient is Reiji. In comparison with the other patients, and that good-for-nothing in particular, and the population as a whole, he is a paragon of virtue and responsibility. Encountering him will be no cause for concern.”

This made Miyu think that either Reiji was an insufferable brown-nose, or really was a perfect specimen of humanity whom even Mr. Sakamaki could find no fault with. “There’s no picture of Reiji?” she asked.

“In the interest of privacy, he decided not to allow his likeness to be-“

“What does he look like?”

Rather than seeming annoyed at the interruption, Mr. Sakamaki looked like he was repressing a smile. “You’re curious?” He adjusted his glasses. “What superficial concerns you have.”

“It seems important to know, in case I run into him.”

“He has the appearance of a perfect gentleman, and you should consider yourself lucky anytime you are graced with the honor of his presence or attention.” Mr. Sakamaki turned to the next page, which displayed the face of a rather wild-looking redhead with green eyes.

“Exhibit C. The third patient, Ayato, is one of three triplet brothers. He suffers from some permutation of narcissistic personality disorder and may display obsessive or aggressive behavior at times. It is less likely that you will encounter him than that deadbeat Shuu, but if you do, inform Ayato that he must escort you to me for a formal introduction before any further interaction may take place.”

If Ayato really was some kind of aggressive narcissist, Miyu didn’t think she wanted any interaction with him at all. Then again, maybe Mr. Sakamaki’s definition of “narcissist” was “person with a sense of self-preservation.” Or maybe Ayato was a bit of a bad boy, as suggested by his tousled hair and rumpled clothes. How Mr. Sakamaki must hate that, Miyu thought, and she decided she liked Ayato as well (though she ranked him below Shuu).

She watched the page flip again to reveal a startlingly similar redhead, though this one was wearing a fedora and had longer hair. He was smirking with a knowing look in his eyes.

“Exhibit D. The fourth patient, Laito, is another of the triplets. He suffers from satyriasis-“

“I’m sorry,” Miyu said, “but what’s that?”

Mr. Sakamaki cleared his throat and for the first time, he looked genuinely uncomfortable. He let out a short sigh. “It is a condition characterized by inordinate, unrestrained interest in the fairer sex, and pursuit of licentious activities with inadequate regard for the intentions of the other party – or the feelings of those forced to witness these violations of common decency.”

Miyu tried to rephrase his convoluted words to make sure she had understood correctly. “So he’s a bit of a ladies’ man… and engages in public displays of affection?”

“He is disgusting,” Mr. Sakamaki said. He did not seem interested in elaborating. He flipped the page to reveal a ghostly pale face framed by lavender hair. This patient seemed younger than the others.

“Exhibit E. Kanato. Another of the triplets. He is capricious and hysterical, prone to crying spells and emotional reactions that explode out of proportion with their inciting incidents. Do not be fooled by his childlike façade. His erratic behavior could pose a danger to you.”

Kanato looked harmless – maybe a bit anemic, and rather sullen, but not dangerous. Miyu supposed that Mr. Sakamaki condemned the mere existence of tears as a threat to civilized society. She was scrutinizing the prominent dark circles under Kanato’s eyes when Mr. Sakamaki flipped the page one more time. This next picture was of a young man in dark clothing, with hair that was almost pure white.

“Exhibit F. Subaru. The youngest patient. He suffers from an unfortunate propensity for violence,” Mr. Sakamaki said.

Miyu wasn’t listening. She was staring at the line of his shoulders in the picture, the way they were hunched forward slightly, and imagining the figure behind the rose bush. The way it had moved into the shadows, crouching, hunched forward.

“What should I do if I run into him?” she asked.

“It is very unlikely,” Mr. Sakamaki said. “Less likely than encountering any of the other patients, in fact.”

Miyu wanted to say that she might have seen him, but she didn’t want to sound like she was contradicting Mr. Sakamaki. Or get Subaru into trouble somehow.

“Should you be approached by any of the triplets, you must request my presence for a formal introduction immediately,” Mr. Sakamaki said. “In the case of that wretched Shuu, as I said before, he is guaranteed to be asleep, so you need only request his removal. As for Subaru… I doubt he will approach you. If you see him, report to me and I will handle the situation appropriately.”

“You said he was violent?” Miyu said. Subaru had a belligerent expression in the picture, but she couldn’t imagine him hitting anybody. He looked more brooding and misunderstood than anything else.

“It mostly manifests in the form of wanton destruction of property,” Mr. Sakamaki replied in a disdainful tone. “He was suspended from high school a number of times on account of his lack of self-control.”

“He’s still in high school?” Miyu realized belatedly that the rest of the patients had looked young enough to be in high school or university as well.

“He graduated last year. All the patients are currently taking various university courses in night and online classes. Subaru is in his first year, the triplets are in their second year, and the two older patients are taking third-year courses. Although Reiji is advanced far beyond the university level, and Shuu is so negligent that his enrollment is a pointless waste of tuition.”

“I see,” Miyu said, feeling sorry for poor narcoleptic Shuu, who no doubt struggled to keep up with his class requirements through no fault of his own. She wanted to ask more about him, but figuring it would incur Mr. Sakamaki’s wrath, she decided to move on. “So what about the other patients who live here?” she asked. “Do all of them need blood transfusions, or do they have different conditions?”

“There are no other patients. Through a generous family sponsorship, this facility exists for the treatment of these six patients only.”

Considering the size of the mansion, Miyu had not expected this answer. But she knew it made sense, in light of how deserted the place was. Only six patients probably meant almost no staff at all. The gleaming white facility of her daydreams, populated with dashing young doctors, was fading away into the gloomy reality in front of her.

“Do you have any further questions?” Mr. Sakamaki asked.

“Do the patients stay in rooms like mine? I mean, are their rooms all over the facility? Or are they in a separate ward?” She wondered if Mr. Sakamaki would divulge a specific location.

“The patients’ rooms are among the off-limits rooms you’ve seen today,” Mr. Sakamaki replied. “All the more reason not to enter restricted areas.”

“You said they’re on a different schedule-“

“I appreciate your concern regarding the whereabouts and daily routines of the patients, but no information pertaining to them is particularly relevant while the fraternization ban is in effect. Do you have any questions that are pertinent to yourself?”

“Why exactly is there a fraternization ban?” Miyu pressed.

“I already told you,” Mr. Sakamaki said. “The temperamental behavior of the patients could have undesirable consequences for the outcome of this treatment program. If you continue to demonstrate such a distrustful attitude regarding institutional policy, it gives the unfortunate impression that you will be less than totally cooperative.”

“I’m sure there’s a good reason for it,” Miyu went on, emboldened by the existence of six potential allies against Mr. Sakamaki’s tyranny. “It’s just that” – she adopted a subtly pitiful expression – “it looks like there aren’t a lot of people around here, so I thought I might get lonely.”

Appealing to Mr. Sakamaki’s sense of humanity was a mistake. “The patients are not here to resolve your lack of a social life. I already told you that enriching social activities would be scheduled following probation. Why do you never _listen_? It is quite tiresome having to repeat myself.”

Miyu fell into defiant silence, assuming a penitent air that she knew was unconvincing.

“If that is all,” Mr. Sakamaki said, “we will now proceed to the laboratory. Please follow me upstairs.”

Miyu followed him in body, but her spirit was elsewhere, soaring upwards on a crescendo of renewed hope as she processed all this new information. It was disappointing that the patient population consisted of literally six people, but all of them were young like her – university students! Once the “fraternization ban” was inevitably lifted, they could all be friends. She pictured them playing darts in the game room and baking cookies in the kitchen. They would be the brothers she’d never had (Ichiro didn’t count), and maybe one of them – Shuu? – would turn into something more.

Miyu had never had male friends per se. From elementary school to university, she had always hung at the periphery of a group of girls one or two years older than herself. Miyu liked to think her friends were older because she was mature for her age, but she knew deep down that it was because she felt safe being the “baby” of the group. No one expected her to know where was good to eat, or what the latest gossip was. And no one expected her to understand boys.

Older girls had never made her feel bad about not having admirers, let alone a boyfriend; they’d laugh and say, “Oh, you’re still a baby, no need for that!” as they poured out their own romantic woes and escapades to her in lurid detail. She’d absorbed it all like a sponge, determined to put it into practice once she did have a boyfriend (Touma was on the receiving end of quite a few ill-advised “love strategies”). But Miyu had always looked beyond her little female-only circles in envy of girls who were part of mixed friend groups, shining like stars orbited by a bevy of boys who changed from friends to lovers and back again in a dizzying rotation.

As she climbed the stairs behind Mr. Sakamaki, Miyu felt a thrill at the thought that maybe it was finally her turn to become the epicenter. The nucleus. The eye of the social storm. Of course, she wasn’t cruel – she didn’t want unrequited love, she told herself – she just wanted a lot of friends who happened to be boys and might want something more, and to be able to take her pick for once instead of hoping there’d be someone left after the other girls had exercised their mysterious womanly charms. If there were no patients but those six, it meant she had no competition for their attention. Maybe they would welcome her as their queen.

She did have her misgivings, as Mr. Sakamaki had said a lot of derogatory things about the patients – “obsessive,” “good-for-nothing,” “violent” – but if given the chance, he’d probably describe _her_ in an unflattering light to a third party as well. Maybe it was all exaggeration. Her impressions of them had probably already been too heavily colored by Mr. Sakamaki’s commentary. She should judge them on their own merits once she met them, she decided, not rely on secondhand information from the most self-righteous snob she’d ever had the displeasure of meeting.

“Are you listening to a word I’m saying?” Mr. Sakamaki had stopped walking and turned to face her. They had reached the top of the stairs.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” (How many times had she apologized today?) “I didn’t quite hear. Could you please say that again?” She gave him a smile that turned out to be genuine. She couldn’t help but smile at the thought of her six would-be suitors. Her reward for putting up with Mr. Sakamaki for this long.

Mr. Sakamaki’s resulting smile immediately erased her own. “Would I please say _what _again?”

“Whatever it was that you just said...”

“I didn’t say anything,” Mr. Sakamaki said, his voice growing low and soft. Soft in the way that pouncing cats were soft. “I said nothing until I asked if you were listening. It was a test. You were not even aware whether I was talking or not?”

“Maybe I need my hearing checked,” she said, her smile tentatively returning.

“You had your hearing checked at the full physical. Prior to the interview. Do you suffer from memory lapses as well?”

To her horror, Miyu heard herself laugh. She didn’t know where it came from, and she stifled it immediately, but not before it had rung out all too clear. A look of disbelief passed over Mr. Sakamaki’s face. For a moment Miyu thought he would unleash a scolding that would bowl her over like a force of nature.

But he didn’t. He only nodded thoughtfully. “Maniacal laughter is a symptom of imbalance in the Heart meridian. I will need to adjust your herbal medicine prescription accordingly. Excess heat in the blood could have severe ramifications for the patients.” He spun on his heel and headed down the corridor.

Miyu followed him, unable to repress her smile. The dreary emptiness of the mansion had transformed into something heavy, expectant, ripe with anticipation – like the air on a train platform, or a telephone about to ring. Mr. Sakamaki’s intimidating form had shrunk down into a tiny caricature. He was nothing but a bit-part antagonist now, Miyu thought, or maybe even comic relief. A petty distraction compared to the six faces (well, five) she’d seen in the living room. Soon she would have friends here. And maybe a boyfriend. She’d be so busy, she wouldn’t even have time to think about Touma or Ichiro or what her parents were up to.

Everything would be all right after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally longer, but it got so long that I had to split it in half. So look forward to Chapter 3 coming soon. :) Let me know your thoughts!

**Author's Note:**

> Shout-out to all Reiji fans! Reiji is my favorite (that's probably obvious), and I based his character here off his drama CD content more than the game content. I haven't decided how much this story actually diverges from canon - I have an overarching plot plan but I'm worried about how to write the other brothers. Le sigh. Let me know what you guys think of Reiji's characterization, and which stations this train should pass before ending in a fiery wreck (or arriving in unexpected places!).


End file.
